


What Each Wants

by fingalsanteater



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Dry Sex, M/M, Nonconathon Treat, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 01:02:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11498496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fingalsanteater/pseuds/fingalsanteater
Summary: “Damn it, Stanley,” says Ford, pushing him away. “Control yourself.”Or, Stan attempts to heed Ford's warnings, but things just never go to plan.





	What Each Wants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sequential](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequential/gifts).



Stan finds Ford sitting by the fire with Euthymia, talking about who-knows-what, ecology or mythology or maybe even biology with the way Ford's eyes had lit up at her scaly chicken legs and sharp bird beak. Stan can scarcely hear them over the rush of blood his ears, ebbing and flowing like the waves lapping the shore.

In the firelight, Euthymia's feathers shine, flickering light and sinuous shadows hiding the strangeness of her appearance and highlighting the more seemingly human parts of her body - the curve of her hip and breasts, her smooth skin and long dark hair twisted into braids. 

Ford, comparatively, has less uncovered for the light and shadow to play on; he refuses to wear nothing but thick turtleneck sweaters and long pants, even in the warm, humid air of the Mediterranean Sea. But, in the time that Stan has been gone from his side, dancing with Euthymia's sisters and daughters, Ford has pushed the sleeves of his sweater up, revealing muscled forearms crisscrossed with silvery scars.

Stan's knees tremble, almost causing him to stumble, and he thinks he must be exhausted. He can't remember the last time he danced with a woman (even if these women are less women and more bird); though, he also can't remember a lot of things, but he imagines that dancing was not high up on the list of things he did before he got his memory fried.

Ford is listening intently to whatever Euthymia is saying in her high-pitched, nasally voice that sounds almost like the slide of a whistle. Stan lowers himself gingerly onto the sand next to Ford, too old to flop down unless he wants to throw his back out. The desire to fling himself to the ground next to Ford, panting and laughing, slicking his sweaty hair back with an equally sweaty hand, is still there in the back of his mind - a hold-over from youth that he now, as far away from it as he can be, finds himself closer to, like his life is a piece of folded paper, its edges overlapping.

Ford glances at him briefly, quizzically, and Stan's heart, already beating a little fast, kicks into high gear, pounding so heavy he thinks Ford must be able to hear it because why else would he be looking at Stan like something is wrong. He takes a breath, but the heat of the air seems to only add to the growing burn within him, drawing oxygen down to ignite the smoldering coal in his belly.

Stan resists the fierce urge to lean his head on Ford's shoulder, and instead lays back on the sand. The stars and thin crescent moon shine brightly, far, far above him in the cloudless sky, but his eyes focus on bursts of red and orange sparks erupting from the flames every time something cracks and breaks, consumed by the fire. They float into the sky, little glowing fireflies curling together with the smoke until they are extinguished by the humid ocean breeze.

"Stanley," says Ford, impatiently, like this isn't the first time he has said his name.

"Yeah." Stan answers, tongue thick and heavy. The drink one of the sirens dribbled into his mouth earlier is still slimy at the back of his throat, tasting of oysters with an underlying sickly sweetness. He not so politely spat most of it out, but not before swallowing a mouthful.

"Stanley," says Ford, and great, he's annoyed. Stan can tell just by the way he says _Stanley_ , voice taking on a sort of flatness and authority that means he is trying to rise above his emotions.

"Did you drink anything?" He asks.

"No," Stan says, which isn't a lie, because it's not like he meant to. It doesn't count as drinking if it's practically shoved down his throat.

"I specifically told you not to drink anything!" His tone is low and angry now and Stan squirms at the sound disappointment laced through Ford’s accusation.

Euthymia laughs, a low trilling sound like a dove, and says, "Oh, that would have been Doris. She likes him. She's always had terrible judgment."

Stan wants to say, "Hey, who are you calling terrible judgment," but with the way his head is swimming it seems more trouble than it's worth to deny a fact.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ford asks. His voice still has that flat, annoyed quality so Stan can't know the truth, but he pretends Ford is annoyed on his behalf instead of just annoyed with him. Stan smiles, a small pulse of pleasure coursing through him at the fantasy of Ford sticking up for him, and props himself on an elbow. Ford and Euthymia are turned toward each other, just half their faces visible.

"It's nothing to worry about," Euthymia says. "Doris has never been good at seeing into men's hearts."

"I didn't realize that was something sirens were known for," Ford says, switching smoothly into nerd mode.

"No. But, when you meet as many men as we do, it is easy to learn what each man wants."

She reaches up and traces Ford's jaw with one claw, drawing down from the hollow behind his earlobe to the cleft of his chin. He doesn't pull away from her touch, and Stan becomes the fire that he had watched just moments ago; he's consuming himself from the inside out, so blindingly hot that he thinks maybe the sand will turn to glass around him.

Stan pushes himself up, crawls across the sand to Ford, whose attention he has drawn away from Euthymia with his movement.

"Sixer," he says, placing his hand on Ford's forearm. The contact feels better than it should, and Stan can't help sliding his thumb over Ford's skin. He forgets what he wants to say, now drawn to way his hand fits around Ford's arm, the way the hair dusting his skin is soft against Stan's palm and the difference in texture between his scars and his unmarred skin. But, this mild touch is just a slight mist of sea spray in his hair when he wants to drown, be dragged under by the tides until he sees nothing but inky blackness.

Ford shrugs off his hand and Stan whimpers at the loss of contact.

“Go back to the boat,” Ford tells him firmly. “Sleep it off.”

Stan says automatically, without thinking at all, “I want you to come with me.” He doesn’t say please, but the plea is echoing in the back of his mind like a mantra.

Euthymia places her sharp claw under Stan’s chin, drawing him closer to her.  

“You would leave him alone to suffer when it’s you he wants?” Her question is directed to Ford, yet her dark pupil-less eyes bore into his own, unsettling him. He tries to pull away, but her claw digs deeper into the soft underside of his jaw, piercing his skin.

Ford scoffs. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” he says. “It’s just an - an aphrodisiac; he’ll be fine.”

She removes her claw from Stan’s chin and licks the blood from its sharp tip. A bead of blood wells up and rolls down his neck, mingling with his sweat, the sticky slide of it down his skin causes him to shudder.

“And what’s in your heart, then?” Euthymia asks, attention back on Ford. “My sister will not let him suffer as you would. I can call to her now.”

“No!” Ford says, so forcefully that it seems he actually objects to the idea, and something like hope grabs hold of Stan’s heart.

Ford climbs to his feet with more grace and less crackling joints than Stan could ever manage. He looms over Stan and Euthymia, thunderous expression on his face.

“Good-bye,” he says to Euthymia. “This has been… enlightening.”

She laughs deeply, tilting her chin and baring her long, delicate throat.

“Has it?”  

Ford doesn’t answer. He holds his hand out and Stan thinks he might just cry at the sight of his six fingers reaching toward him like a promise. Stan takes hold of Ford’s hand and pushes up from the sand with Ford’s help.

Stan doesn’t plant his feet, but allows himself to fall forward into Ford’s space, chests colliding.

“Damn it, Stanley,” says Ford, pushing him away. “Control yourself.”

“Damn it, Stanford,” Stan mocks lazily. He's too far gone to feel the hurt of Ford's rebuff and it's becoming more and more difficult to keep his distance. It doesn’t occur to him that he should keep his distance. He doesn’t even think about how he’s been keeping his distance for, well, a long time. His body is burning with need and he only has eyes for Ford.

Ford beckons Stan silently and begins walking down the beach, back towards the Stan O’ War II. Stan, trudging along obediently behind him and controlling himself, only makes it halfway before stumbling and falling to his knees.

Stan plops down, eyes on the ocean, watching the waves with just the aid of the stars and moon and the faint, distant flicker of the sirens’ fire. He rubs his hard dick through his pants; his own hand is not satisfying in any way and he whines low in his throat in frustration. He’s not sure how long he sits there in the dark before a flashlight comes bobbing down the shore, Ford attached to it.

“Come on, Stanley,” he says. “You’re the fool who drank something when I specifically told you not to. Now you are going to have to deal with it.”

Stan reaches up and clutches at Ford’s sweater.

“Sixer,” Stan says, tugging at him, trying to get him to the ground with him. “Please,” he begs, not even sure what he’s asking for except for Ford.

He doesn’t move away, but doesn’t seem to be swayed by Stan’s pleas either.

“Why couldn’t you just listen to me for once?" Ford says, exasperated, voice tight.

Stan presses his face into Ford’s thigh, mouths at the fabric of his pants and slips his hands under Ford’s sweater to pet the hair on his stomach. Ford makes a choked sound in the back of his throat.

“You did it on purpose,” Ford says. “Didn’t you?”

“Sure did,” Stan says. He’s not actually sure what he did because he’s not really listening. His hands have settled on Ford’s belt buckle and he’s fumbling with it, trying to get it open.

“Look at me,” Ford says. He drops the flashlight into the sand with a muffled thump. Its beam cuts across the dark to all the way to the sea. Ford puts one hand over Stan’s at the belt, stopping him, and with the other he finds Stan’s jaw and forces him to look up. Stan can scarcely see his face, not just because of the dark, but because he his sight is bleary, like he’s looking through the water up at the sun reflecting off the surface. Ford is just this looming presence, this promise that Stan is desperate to fulfill.

Ford squeezes Stan’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and says, “Just remember, tomorrow when you wake up and you think ‘What did I do?’ and you feel disgusted and stupid, that you wanted this. I warned you.”

“Right, Sixer. Got it,” he says. He wasn’t listening to that either.

Ford steps back and Stan almost falls on his face trying to follow.

“Just – just give me one second, damn it,” Ford says, hands going to his belt to finish the job Stan started. Stan is a little disappointed he doesn’t get the chance to do it for him. “I have to think about the logistics of this. Of course, you have to make things difficult for us both.”

“How about you just fuck me already!” Stan yells, frustrated by Ford’s stall tactics and his own burning need. He pushes up to his knees and makes quick work of his pants, which he draws down just far enough down his thighs, leaving him exposed and vulnerable, cock wet and aching.

Ford groans. “Get on your hands and knees,” he demands and Stan readily complies. “Oh, great. Now you listen,” Ford adds.

“Come on,” Stan says urgently. He’s never needed anything as much as he needs Ford’s cock right at this very moment.

“This isn’t –” Ford drops to his knees and fits himself in between Stan’s trembling thighs. “This isn’t going to be pleasant for either of us.”

Ford is underestimating how much Stan wants him.

Fingers trail up his bare thigh and Stan moans, high and desperate. Ford’s hand settles on his ass, spreading him open, and the fingers of Ford’s other hand find his hole. They are wet with thin saliva as Ford presses into him with one finger. The stretch and burn is so exquisite that Stan’s arms begin to tremble. He drops to his elbows. At this rate, he’ll be face down in the sand by the time Ford gets around to fucking him.

“Goddamn it,” Stan growls, “would you just –” Ford spits and shoves another finger in. Stan forgets what he wanted to say. “Please,” he cries, instead.

It seems both like no time at all, and like it’s been an eternity, before Ford’s hands rest on his hips and the slick head of Ford’s cock is pressed against him. He doesn’t move, doesn’t try to press inside Stan and it’s infuriating and exhilarating to be right up against the edge of getting what he wants. He moves his hips backward, trying to fuck Ford if Ford won’t fuck him, but he’s too tight and Ford’s cock just slips down and grazes his balls.

“I’m sorry,” Ford says, repositioning himself. His anger has tempered into something softer; his extra pinkies caress Stan’s hip bones. “I know it’s difficult for you to resist an attractive woman. I should’ve never brought you here.”

Stan is thinking about how good it will feel when Ford fucks him and so his apologies take on the same resonance as the waves, just background noise to the pounding of his pulse. And, when Ford finally sinks into him, cock stretching him open and filling him up, Stan finds other sounds to focus on: the sound of Ford’s low moan as he slides in slowly and the sound of his breath hitching when his hips meet the curve of Stan’s ass.

He fucks Stan slow and deep, hands gripping Stan’s hips hard enough to bruise. Stan doesn’t even think to ask him to touch his cock, because the slide and stretch of Ford inside him has rendered him speechless and he is riding high on this pleasure for as long as Ford will give it. He never wants it to end.

“Ask me,” Ford says, eventually.

Stan doesn’t answer, mostly because he feels he can’t keep breathing and formulate words at the same time.

“Ask me to touch you,” Ford says again, between his own labored breaths, his cock pressed just inside Stan’s rim.

It takes Stan almost too long to realize that Ford is begging Stan to beg him. His heart wrenches and Stan barks out a strangled laugh, but he doesn’t think for a second to not do what Ford asked.

“Please.”  

“Please what?” Ford slips his cock out of Stan, leaving him horribly empty.

“Fuck,” Stan groans and Ford’s hands on his hips tighten. “Touch me. Fuck me. Just - come on, Ford.”

Ford’s hand reaches around to grip Stan’s cock as he thrusts back into Stan’s body. He doesn’t stroke in time with his thrusts, seems to treat Stan’s leaking cock as an afterthought, sliding his hand over it intermittently. That’s enough for Stan, who can barely keep himself upright with how his arms and legs are shaking, his bare forearms and elbows pressed further into the loose sand with the weight of his body.

He comes as Ford’s thumb slides against his wet slit and Ford’s cock drives deeper into him. He comes with a shout, a strangled cry that is echoed by Ford who has gone still as Stan spasms around him. Ford doesn’t wait until Stan has finished coming, removing his hand from Stan’s still twitching cock to grip his hips again with two hands, dig twelve fingers into his soft flesh, and fuck him fast and hard. Just a few thrusts has Ford coming too, crying out and spilling wetly inside Stan.

Stan rests his hot forehead against his sandy forearm, trying to slow his harsh breaths; there is a throbbing behind his eyes, a searing, pounding pain like he’s living a weekend long bender hangover. He’s sore everywhere, from toes to fingers, and his gut roils with a sudden onset nausea.

Ford’s cock has slipped out of his ass in the time that Stan has taken to catch his breath, but Ford is still there, behind him, hands softly caressing his hips and sides and thighs. The heat of his body and every rough callus on his palms reminds Stan of how he badly he wanted Ford just minutes ago. He was a man possessed - goddamn sirens and their sex drinks.

He wishes he still wanted it, because, with the effects worn off, all Stan feels is sick. Where he wanted Ford’s hands on him, now he can’t wait to escape from his gentle touch.

But, Ford’s apology is echoing in his head. He knows his brother, knows he feels just as sick as Stan. From guilt. Probably putting all the blame on himself because he thinks he has to take care of Stan, the patronizing, selfish bastard. There’s more than enough blame to go around and Stan’s laid claim to at least three-quarters of it.

“Stanley?” Ford asks, hesitantly. “Can you – can we go back to the boat now?” He sounds a little raw, cracked open like an egg, and both of them are a little messier because of it.

“Yeah,” says Stan. He grunts as he pushes himself up from the sand with the last of his waning strength. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”  


End file.
